Today it is raining and I am glad for this falling down house that still keeps the wet out. I write in pyjamas. I write with a mosquito bite on the arch of my left foot. I write with a throat that gets sorer as the sun fights its way through water to get to the drops on the window so that it can refract in at me, at this page, at these words. I write with a restless fly climbing over the knuckles of my right hand; it will not stay still it wants to tickle walk across my skin it wants it wants it wants. I write with you. I write with your voice inside my head, the rasping depth of you, the way your words stay long after you have stopped speaking.
Today it is raining and we live nine-hundred kilometres apart and you wake each morning with an anxious chest that you will bind and cover with a black t-shirt so you can move into the day being held. I imagine that I am your binder, that double layer of nylon and lycra that flattens your chest, that wraps around you, that is where you are, holding you when you cannot hold yourself. Today it is raining and I am sky water in your hair, on your cheeks, down your back. I am kiss on your lips, tongue in your mouth, hands on the small of your back, smile in your eyes. Today I am green grey the weight of love today I am sending myself to you wrapping around around around, binding you, walking you through the minutes where you do not know what comes next. Today I hold you.
